Pretend you are Andrew Motion, Poet Laureate of the UK, and compose an epithalamium in honor of the marriage of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker-Bowles!

Think of the orphans left by the Tsunami,
yet Camilla Parker Bowles will not be called mammy

by William nor Harry. What else can she grope for,
Princess Consort is the best she can hope for.

Though thousands die in an Iraq town
In England, the bedroom wall comes down

uniting Charles and dear Camilla,
at last they’re free to share one pilla

The Church of England might be frustrated
But they at least will be consecrated.

England’s bells will ring in joy
We'll pray she does not birth a boy.

What they see in each other is quite a mystery
from self, from sense, from history


[This message has been edited by Florence Campi (edited February 11, 2005).]

Epithalamium for Charles and Camilla

For Chuck and Cam, this is your Epithalamium.
Because dear Prince, you couldn't marry Mum,
you're going to marry someone similar.
At last, you'll be wedded to Camilla!

Christopher T. George

[Deleted--I started feeling bad about having so cheerfully crucified someone, especially during Lent.]


[This message has been edited by Julie Stoner (edited February 12, 2005).]

Well done Charlie, it’s not before time
you sorted it out, and made her thine.
The situation’s really got out of hand,
so bug*er the Abbey, and a Coldstream band.

Just whisk her off, down the Town Hall
a few quick words, and a telephone call
to your Mum to tell the deed is done.
Then back to Highgate for a bit of fun.

King Charles III has a odd sort of ring,
but Queen Camilla can be no such thing.
Don’t worry your Consort’s a first class wife,
and the Queen will outlive you, I’d bet my life.




[This message has been edited by Liam O'Connor (edited February 11, 2005).]

History, Race Horses and Royal Marriages

It’s said that history repeats itself
But it seems that’s not quite true;
Camilla will marry her Prince of Wales,
which Alice couldn’t quite do.

She got the shaft when he married Di
Or didn’t, at least in those days.
But they’re doing it now and the Queen be damned
Who will bless them anyways.

But Charle’s not the fool he oft seems to be
Though kings never need be elected;
He checked out the polls ere saying ‘I do’
To be sure not too many objected.

But Anglicans are as Anglicans do
So he’ll marry his little divorcee
But he may find she’s not been broke to the saddle
When he tries to reign his new horsie.

She may never be queen, consorting about
This facsimile among England’s Jewels;
But there will be one fact never in doubt:
There’ll still be one subject she rules.



[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited February 11, 2005).]

Epithalamion

Camilla Parker Bowles
marries the Prince of Wales,
the last bucket of coals
to warm the least of males.

Charlie's Angels

He didn't love Diana.
He married her just the same.
Oh what a sorry man a
famous future king became!

He truly loved Camilla!
Thank God Diana died!
And now it is God's will a
famous consort be his bride.

This is much too nasty. I actually bear CPB no animosity. But the stateliness of the limerick seems suitable to the occasion...

There'll be no throne for the witch
who kinked the royal hitch.
The prince and the land
are both second-hand,
so she can't be queen, just queen-bitch.

O let the tumpets blare a royal blast.
Prince Charles shall wed a Parker-Bowles! At last
the fate that Britain's upstart church will meet
will cause the world to marvel. In the street,
no riots will be mounted. Heads will roll,
but roll with laughter. For the Prince will stroll,
one day, into Westminster Abbey, where
they'll place a crown upon his thinning hair.
And, in that moment, Charles will be not just
the King; he'll be chief priest. And when the dust
has settled, in that Kingdom over there,
the world will see that none in Britain care.
The Church born when another King was wed
unto another strumpet will be dead.

Camilla, Camilla, that rhymes with "Godzilla"
(though Charles does not rhyme with "Rodan").
She'll step on some walls, then she'll sit on St. Paul's
and breath fire--at least that's the plan.
When Hank had his wedding he had a beheading
or two, plus a wife with three tits.
But how, hear her cry, can she upstage poor Di
who the public beloved into bits?
Let her weep, let her wail, for her gala will pale
when compared with the virginal bride.
But the nuptial bed? Well she's once before wed
and in that she'll at least take some pride.

Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles
have always been compatible souls

and except for Diana’s brief appearance
their carryings-on haven’t brooked interference.

Now that it seems the Church and the Queen
have committed not to intervene,

the two will marry at long last
in the ceremony Cupid forecast.

So give a “Hip! Hip!” and “Hip!” once again;
let’s cheer for them both, “God Save the Twain!”

Apologies for vulgarity and the likely muddling up of church law and terminology.

--

Before you're married according to the Codex,
Charles, do you still want to be her Kotex?

------------------
Steve Schroeder

With this epithalamium
We praise Camilla Parker Bowles
(Now Princess Consort to the proles)
Whom, truth be told, is not as dumb
As Lady Di; and has oft come
To comfort Charles with hot, sweet rolls
And scones and clotted cream. The polls
All show it's safe, and so his mum
Applauds an anus horribilis -
Lets him wed his amaryllis.
May dear Camilla e'er evince,
Great pleasure with her Tampon Prince.



[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited February 13, 2005).]

You don't know the half of it! I discovered this on a BBC News item on the very day of the engagement:

"Prince Charles admitted he had been unfaithful to Diana on a television programme with reporter Jonathan Dimbleby."

What next, I wonder?

What next?

Wearing the Royal Trousers

The democratic boardroom
is often led by proxy;
Camilla Parker-Bowles prefers
a kingdom ruled by doxy.



[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited February 13, 2005).]

EREME -

You know whereof you you write. The following poem draft was found crumpled in the back seat of the Royal Bentley, according to former Footman and Bearer of the Silver Scepter, Anthony Murchison, in his book, I'll Say Anything for Money

Watching Dimbleby
nimbly
bend;
tenderly,
slenderly,
spend;
is simperly,
the end.

A prince, however hard he tries
Grows crabby without exercise.
Our prince is anything but fat,
Which is not to be wondered at…
He gets what exercise he can,
(Why!, sometimes right there on the ottoman!)
And never ever seems to lack
The energy to clamber back.

But do you think it worries him
That the world mocks his, er, private whim?
Oh, no, now Camilla's parked and bowled Queen's rules out
He’s proud of his monarchial flout.


(With acknowledgement to A A Milne, adapted from “Teddy Bear”, S1, and closing S13)




[This message has been edited by Seree Zohar (edited February 15, 2005).]

Who gives a piss
about the Prince
or his Kotex Miss—

The Chemistry of a Royal Wedding

Nature abhors a vacuum:
With ionic stubbornness
These two nuclei attract,
To fill their outlying empty shells
With the other’s negative energy.


Been spending too much time teaching my son the basics of the atom



[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited February 15, 2005).]

Let my people go

To see Royal people in a cage
puts all of heaven in a rage.

No wonder they're all round the bend.
since they're expected to pretend

to be sun gods so paparazzi
can catch them at it dressed as Nazi

party goers. If they're weird
it's no more than we should have feared.

Trained puppets who are forced to fit
a mould without resenting it.

Consider the lilies of the field
who neither spin nor toil but yield

their loveliness--and then regard
the royals who we are working hard

at shaking hands and meeting folk
who bore them witless. If one spoke

sincerely they would surely tell
us all their life is total hell.

Let those people go, set free
the wretched British royalty.

Who gives a toss if horsy Camilla
rides into the sunset with her Chilla.


[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited February 17, 2005).]

Sympathy For One, But Not For All?

Noble Janet Kenny!
Comes to the aid of those we push.
Where were you, Janet Kenny,
when everyone was bashing Bush?

*grin*

[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited February 17, 2005).]

Jerry, no time for jubilation,
Bush is a distant blood relation.

Observe the eyes too closely set,
you'll have a dynastic ruler yet!

What am I saying? It's George the second.
It happened faster than I reckoned.

Janet ;)

Charles and Camilla,
axers of vows,
I've had my fill o'
such sacred cows!

One as bootless
as his mother;
the other fruitless -
they deserve each other!

Poor Little Charlie--Happy at Last?


I.

When Charles wed Di I found it romantic,
And admit to following his later antics,
But now that he's set to wed Camilla,
I confess I don't care a single scintilla.


II.

None of us could get enough
Back when Charles wed to breed an heir,
But now that he's to wed for love
Does anybody really care?

III.

The Queen agreed with wrinkled nose,
And finally poor Charlie chose
To be Camilla's wedded man.
Does anybody give a damn?

What a whammy
for Consort Cammi

At last she
weds her king -
(the former
Tampon string)

but the Queen Mum
wont come

The Blood Royal

Mistah Windsor, he wed

Cry Havoc! And let slip hounds of the press
(and your disapproving mother.) Nonetheless,
you weathered common scorn and royal slight
for what any man would say – for him – is right:

Who’d not a gleaming armor coat exchange
for Love’s new wider wings? Is it so strange
to absorb Love’s savory flow so read’ly,
to apply one’s heart to love so stead’ly?

O, be not ashamed! Always, and again,
Always! Love will triumph, in the end.
For when your play-text is done and wrought,
the playwright’s last and final thought

trumps the groundling’s. On the rag (from a period past)
that pit-fiend wears, Love’s play’s triumphant cast
will throw no roses, after all. The curse
of any play’s an audience – yours is no worse.

So if libels are leaves to fill the common pipe,
“Tamp on!” shout boldly, even as they type.
“Pack it tight, boys, for when true Love’s fire
ignites that bowl, the Sun’s own ire

will fade behind Love's sweet and cottony smoke
on the perfumed Summer’s eve – may you choke
upon Love’s vapors, light and white as pearls!” –
and on your staff, Love’s crimson folds unfurl.


[This message has been edited by Dan Halberstein (edited February 23, 2005).]

Will the groom? Much to soon

Dan

That's a bloody riot! *grin*

Jerry,

"MUCH TOO SOON!" LOL--That's a scream!

Poor Charlie!

Marion

Twenty years

They both went through divorce
from others that they met
and married as a course
of state and etiquette.
But custom's rigid force
required that they forget
for twenty years their sweet duet.

But then one year, the source
of much pain and regret,
Di would die by the bourse.
The pair had hopes as yet.
Enduring many coarse
shouts from the crowd, they let
the world see them - téte-a-téte.

Their love has found its course.
But as they warned: Don't set
Prince Charles before the bourse.

http://media.collegepublisher.com/me...s/246y8502.jpg

Story here

------------------
Svein Olav (The poet formerly known as Solan )



[This message has been edited by Svein Olav Nyberg (edited May 31, 2005).]